Tirra Lirra
by pale-jonquil
Summary: Eight fairy tales with an EngBel twist. Prussia and Seychelles make cameos.


**Tirra Lirra**

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_i. the boy who wouldn't grow up_

As the eldest child currently living in St. Jerome's Home for Abandoned and Orphaned Children, little Miss Marie Martens — twelve going on twenty — has taken it upon herself to look after the other children quite as though she herself were their mother.

She shares a bedroom with Antonio, a boy she has known all her life, and also with little Lovino, the newest addition to their home. One of Antonio's legs dangles over the edge of his bunk bed as he sleeps, and Lovino has managed to somehow turn himself around (again) so his pillow supports his feet rather than his head. Like every mother, she has her favorites, and no one makes her as happy as these two. She doesn't think she could ever ever_ ever _love anyone as much as she loves them.

She smiles as she watches them sleep, but the impish little boy standing on her windowsill stomps his foot to get her attention.

"May I — " She twists her hands, pulls at her pinky. "May I please have a few days to think about it?"

"Why should you need time to think on it?" he demands. "What could _possibly_ be more fun than becoming Queen of Never Land?"

"Please, Arthur, lower your voice. You'll wake the boys."

She looks back at Antonio and Lovino, hoping they've not been disturbed, while Arthur — with the full moon behind him — raises his hands and fashions a pair of wiggly black horns out of his shadow for Antonio's head.

"You stop that!" Marie hisses, reaching out to pinch his shin, but the boy is too quick. He leaps off the ledge and floats along the cool night air, just beyond her reach.

"Well?"

"Well…I'm sure it would be awfully fun, and I _would_ like to see everyone again, but — "

The boy dramatically rolls his eyes. "But _what?"_

"Oh, but Arthur — what if I really _did_ leave? Who would hug Lovi when he cries at night? He's still not used to being without his mother. And who would remind Toni to comb his hair and shine his shoes?"

"Stop being selfish," Arthur snaps. "The Lost Boys have more need of you than either of _those_ nancies."

"I just — " She covers her face with her hands. "Oh, I don't know what to do!" she wails.

"Pick me. It's the easiest thing in the world, even easier than flying to Never Land on a clear night."

"But — I _can't_ — "

"_Why not?"_ the boy viciously demands, alighting on the windowsill. He crosses his arms over his chest and stomps his foot. "Why are you choosing _them_ over _me?"_

"But I'm not, Arthur, I promise, I only — _please,_ may I have some time to think?"

The boy's face twists into something awful, his rage quickly covering up his pain. He huffs, stomps his foot again, and without even so much as a goodbye, flies away.

Like all mothers, she has her favorites, and he cannot accept he is not one of them.

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_ii. white wedding_

And she was so excited to wear her new dress tonight! As brilliantly white as his feathers, with a large bow adorning the bustle — one she knew looked ridiculous and yet wasn't ashamed of adoring in the least. She danced in front of her mirror as she prepared her toilette for the ball, humming all the pretty songs she didn't realize she knew until her love for her swan prince laid them upon her heart.

_I can't wait for you to see my dress tomorrow night,_ she told him, _it's going to knock your socks off!_

_I'm sure it will at that,_ he agreed, smiling and tucking her hair behind her ear, marveling at the way the moonlight danced in her eyes, _but really, darling, there's no need for such extravagancies…_

_Oh, I think there is! _she breezily insisted._ It's not every day you make a vow of everlasting love in front of the entire court and break the curse on a handsome prince._

But there was no moon the night of the ball, and the Devil always sees best in the darkness.

"The vow I made was for you," she frantically sobs as she cradles his head to her breast. "It was for you, for you, _for you, for you…"_

His eyelids flutter shut. "I know."

"It was for you, I _swear_ it was for you — I've never loved anyone but you — but the enchanter's son looked _exactly like you_ and I'm so, _so_ sorry — "

He tries to reach for her hand, but only has strength enough to grasp at her dress. How sad, he thinks in his last moments — that her perfect white dress should now be so torn and ripped. She would have done better to stay at the ball, not rush through the thick of the forest back to the enchanted lake, back to him. The blood pouring forth from his wounded heart is staining her lovely dress such a terrible shade of red.

"Knowing you wanted to make the vow for me is enough," he whispers.

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_iii. no other in all the world_

The bench under the wispy weeping willow quickly became her favorite place to do her sewing.

The young king watches her one afternoon, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

_What if she refuses me?_

Just as he's made up his mind to turn and walk back inside the castle, she lifts her head and meets his eye.

"_Oh,"_ he fumbles, pink dusting his cheeks. "I — erm — so sorry. Do forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you."

She smiles and shakes her head. She waves to him —_ hello_ — and then taps the empty space beside her on the bench with the tip of her finger — _sit._

"Really, I'll go. I know how important your sewing is to you, so — "

She taps the bench again. _Sit._

She grins at him as he makes his way over to her, and he wonders if she knows. He'd be simultaneously terrified and relieved if she did. She has a great talent for being able to see right through him, and on more occasions than he's comfortable admitting. But if she is _really_ able to see right through him — see past all the posturing, all the fake bravado masking the crippling self-doubt — if she saw past all that and straight into his heart of hearts, what would she think when she saw nothing but her own smiling face reflected back at her?

He clears his throat. "Your shirt seems to be coming along quite well."

She proudly holds out before him.

"I have never seen anyone fashion a shirt out of starwort before," he says, carefully brushing his fingers over it, "but this is some very fine work. You have a gift, madam."

She rolls her eyes and shoves his shoulder, her expressive personality more than making up for the fact she cannot speak. She blushes, and he loves the sight of it.

"Whomever you are making it for," he says, his voice suddenly melancholy, "they are very lucky to have such a claim on your affections."

She frowns at that. She cannot speak — _must not, must not_ — but she and the young king have developed their own rudimentary way of communicating with each other. Holding her hand out to him, palm up, means _more._ Placing her hand over her heart indicates _happy._ Tapping his earlobe with her finger signifies _important._

But how to show him _brother,_ and not _lover._

He draws a deep breath. "Marie, are you — are you happy here? With me?"

She smiles softly and nods.

"Because — I am very fond of you, you know, and — well, if there was ever anything you needed, or wanted, I would move Heaven and earth to provide it. Or if you wished to leave — "

Clutching at his arm, she furiously shakes her head.

"I see," he says, chuckling. "But you are by no means a prisoner here, you know. On the contrary — I've always considered you my guest. You are free to come and go as you please, and you are under no obligation to return. But — please believe me when I say that you shall always have a home here."

(How to show him her true home is wherever he is.)

"But I _am_ glad to have you here at the castle. I do wish, however, the circumstances of our first meeting had been different — though you may rest assured the nobles who were accosting you that day and accusing you of being a witch have been severely dealt with and are nobles no more." He sighs. "It is only — I feel as though there's no one I can truly talk to. Well, there _are_ people, but…the servants don't feel comfortable speaking to me, and I don't always trust the nobles and the courtiers. Too much pretense and too little sincerity with that lot. And I shall be the first to admit that I am not always the easiest person to converse with. But _you_ — "

He shifts on the bench, clasping and unclasping his hands. "You are so easy for me to talk to. You _listen,_ and it's not only because you cannot speak. I can see it in your eyes. I cannot explain it, but — well, suffice it to say, you are too good to trifle with me, though I am ever so thankful you do. I've probably told you more about myself than you care to know, or know what to do with. I wish — I wish there existed some way for me to find out more about _you,_ however. I _do_ try, but I fear I must frustrate you beyond anything."

She shakes her head.

As they hold each other's gaze, the young king's heart hammers away in his chest.

_She might say no — but then, there's always a chance —_

"Marie, I — there is something I wish to ask you. Or — if you would be so good as to — "

He fidgets for a few moments before bolting off the bench and startling her. He can lead men to war, he can execute swift justice and even swifter damnation, but he cannot help falling completely apart in her presence.

"Ah — _never mind,"_ he says, jittery and utterly unable to conceal it. "It's nothing, truly. Perhaps another day."

In his haste, he knocks over the basket near her feet.

"Terribly sorry," he apologizes, bending down to set it right, "I — oh, it's empty. Have you run out of starwort?"

She nods.

He has no idea why the starwort is so important to her, cannot fathom why on earth she should need to so laboriously sew a shirt out of it. All he knows is that the day he happened upon her — having arrived home from abroad two days sooner than expected, and only to find a group of his nobles making a shameful mess of things during his absence — she was sobbing on the ground, hunched over the broken remnants of her original shirt of starwort.

But no matter. The fact that it is precious to her is enough to make it precious to him as well.

"I shall ride out tomorrow and gather some for you, if you like. I know just the spot."

She points to herself with one hand, the other pointing off far into the distance.

"Of course you may accompany me," he says with a smile. "You are always more than welcome to, my lo— "

He stares at her in horror, his eyes wide and the blood draining from his face. Backing away from her, he brings a hand to rest at the back of his neck.

"Erm — I meant — _bloody hell — "_

Mortified, he mumbles something about seeing her at lunch —_ waffles, your favorite_ — and marches determinedly away, cursing himself black and blue when he's certain she's out of earshot.

(She will not have regained her voice when he finally does muster up the courage to ask her to marry him. Her answer will be to take his hand, hold it over her heart, and nod. _Yes.)_

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_iv. pearls before swine_

"Really, kid, you're thinkin' about this way too hard. I mean, you either _wanna_ live or you _don't,_ right?"

The Joker plucks a single piece of straw and twirls it between his fingers like the finest of cigars, effortlessly turning it to gold.

"He wouldn't say he was gonna execute you if he didn't mean it," he continues. "The Queen of Spades ain't one to mince his words."

"Are you — " She licks her chapped lips. "Are you _quite_ sure you heard him say that? There's no chance you might have misunderstood him?"

"Nope. Nada. He's a heartless, ruthless bastard, after all. Don't you remember how he poisoned all those nobles from Diamonds?"

"No."

"…_oh._ Well. It still happened. He _totally_ poisoned them."

He smiles — or, rather, continues to smile, for the curve of his lips hasn't bent since he materialized.

And she wonders: What sort of person smiles whilst talking about death?

"Come on, kid, you know I'm good for it. I've come through for you all the other times, haven't I?"

"Well — yes," she admits, hating that she can't deny the truth of his words. Wondering why she so desperately wants to.

"So what makes you think I won't come through for you this time? Don't you trust me?"

"It's not that. I'd be dead already if it weren't for you, and I _am_ grateful for your help, it's just — "

He grits his teeth while he waits for her to continue. He reminds himself to keep his eyes steady, locked on hers, and not to glance at his watch for the time.

"The first time you only wanted my ring," she continues. "The second time, you only wanted my necklace. But this time you want _a child?" _She shakes her head, unable to comprehend. "How can I _possibly_ say yes to that?"

"How can you possibly say _no?"_ he counters, tossing the strip of gold to the floor. He's disappointed that she merely glances at it, that she didn't immediately descend upon it like a starving dog upon a steak. "Livin' ain't easy, but it's a whole lot harder with your head chopped off."

She lays a hand upon her neck, her nervous pulse throbbing against her thumb.

"I don't like seein' you like this," the Joker coos, plopping down beside her on the rectangular bale of straw. "The sooner you're out of all this mess, the better."

"What would you even do with a baby?" she whispers, trying to buy some time and feeling all the more stupid for it. His reasons for asking for her firstborn child no longer matter, as she's already come to a decision. Still, she feels she owes it to her future child to fight on his or her behalf — she couldn't live with herself if she didn't.

"Now, now. You know I'm on your side here, but that is something I can't tell you. You're just gonna have to trust me."

He's wearing too much cologne. She puts some distance between them.

"_Look, _kid," he barks, jumping up from his seat. He shakes his legs out, scratches his messy, matted hair. "Just say yes already. _Fuck."_

_Finally,_ she thinks, because you can only be hungry for so long before you become desperate.

But as desperate as he seems to be for her to make a pact with him, she's even more desperate to live.

"Alright, Joker." She brings her hand to her belly. "I accept. Please help me."

The Joker smiles.

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_v. leap of faith_

"Oh — hello there!" the pretty young shepherdess called up to him the first day they met. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

The pale young man in the tower rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue dismissively. "It is merely another day, just like any other."

She shrugged. "Mmm, maybe. But we're not promised another day in this life, now, are we? Even the dullest of days are still a gift."

He blinked, his Goethe and his Montaigne and his Shelley momentarily abandoning him.

"What the devil are you doing here?" he shouted down to her, and then bit the inside of his cheek, clenching his fist at his side.

"One of my little lambs wandered off," she explained, hugging the animal close. "I had to come find her, and she led me here to this glade."

"Well — now that you have found her,_ you may leave."_

And even though he abruptly ended that first conversation by slamming the window shut, the shepherdess returns the next day for another.

"What is it _today?"_ the pale young man sighs, exasperated, as though his time was actually valuable.

"I found a book on my way back home yesterday," she explains, holding it up to him. "It's a little worse for wear, but I think it's still readable. There are bite marks, so I guess an animal must have carried it off."

The pale young man hasn't seen that book since the day he accidentally let it fall out the window five years ago, but he instantly recognizes it. "That is my Cervantes."

"It's in a language I can't read. Why don't you come down and translate it for me?"

"Because — I can't."

"Can't, or don't want to?"

"Because I _literally can't!"_ he shouts down to her. "My father locked me up in this _bloody tower_ because he's convinced I'm going to usurp his throne one day."

"So _you're_ the prince everyone talks of."

He nods.

"Do you _want_ to usurp his throne?" she inquires.

"No."

"And your father cannot be reasoned with?"

"No."

"Oh, dear. That _is_ unfortunate. Is there no way at all for you to escape?"

"Believe me, if I could have escaped by now, I would have."

The shepherdess considers.

"You could always just grow your hair out," she eventually offers up to him. "Then I could climb up it to meet you."

The pale young man scoffs. "That's preposterous."

"Aw, but why?"

"Well, it — it would never work, for one thing."

"It works in the stories."

"Which stories? Not in any I've read."

"You must not be reading the right ones, then."

He opens his mouth, only to find no words come. His heart is doing odd things inside his chest it hasn't done in years, since he was first imprisoned within the tower. The hope his heart so naively entertained then eventually flickered out and died, and he's mourned it ever since. But this pretty young shepherdess is stirring up the leftover ashes, unearthing vague and aching longings he'd not acknowledged in decades, and he doesn't know whether he should thank her for it or hate her.

"You are a fool," he admonishes, turning away from the window.

And yet — somehow — he still wanted her to return the next day. He was even looking forward to it.

But the shepherdess did not come. At first he was sad, but then he was furious with himself.

She did not return the day after that, or the day after that, _or_ the day after _that._

Still — and for reasons he could not explain — he waited for her.

He even wrote down questions and topics of conversation should she come back to see him. Having not held a proper conversation with anyone in more than ten years, he wrote himself reminders not to be rude: _Ask her for her name, ask her why she wears wooden shoes, invite her to tea? No, that's absurd, DO __NOT__ INVITE HER TO TEA, tell her the sound of her voice is like bells._

Eventually he came to the conclusion she was never going to return, that he was never going to see her again, and so he crumped up the paper and threw it out the window.

But then, on an unremarkable day, one just like any other:

"My name is Marie."

The pale young man nearly fell off his rolling library ladder, so surprised and delighted was he to hear her voice again. He rushed to the window and when he saw her down far below — driving a horse-drawn cart brimming with wool — his heart trembled inside of him.

"These shoes I wear are called clogs," she calls up to him, holding a wrinkled piece of paper in her hands, "and I carved and decorated this pair myself! I wear them because they protect my feet from thorns and the sheep's hooves. Of course I'll take tea with you! And — "

"No, that's enough!" the pale young man shouts down to her, stretching out his hand in a vain attempt to stop her. "Don't read — !"

But she does. Eventually, he sees her lips move.

"Sorry, what?" he calls down to her. "I couldn't hear you."

She looks up at him, her smile brighter than the sun. "I said that was very kind of you, what you said about my voice!"

No wonder she was Quasimodo's favorite, he thinks, realizing she has suddenly become his favorite as well.

"It's true," he mumbles.

"What?"

"I said — " He throws his hands up in frustration. "Oh, _never mind! _Just what exactly are you doing here? _Why have you come?"_

"Do you not want to see me? I wanted to see you."

"Well — of course — I only meant — _your cart._ Why did you bring it with you?"

"So you can make your great escape!" she shouts, holding her arms out wide.

He only stares at her.

"Jump!" she encourages. "The wool is springy and will cushion your fall."

He sneaks a guilty glance back inside his room, at his Goethe and his Montaigne and his Shelley. "Why would I want to do something as foolhardy as that?"

"Because there's a whole world out there waiting for you!"

_Waiting…for me?_ he thinks. _But that's impossible._

_Isn't it?_

"You've spent your whole life reading about the world," she says. "Now it's time you did some living in it."

"_Why?"_ he suddenly demands to know. He is half-sick of shadows, it's true, but he cannot contemplate a life without them. "Why should I jump, when I know what's waiting for me out there? Don't be daft — the world is full of Grendels and Iagos and Ruperts of Hentzau, and you know it!"

"But it's also full of Dorothea Brookes and Anne Elliots and Sydney Cartons! I know it might be a little overwhelming at first, but you don't have to be afraid."

"Who says I'm afraid?" he huffs. "I'm not afraid."

"Then come down here and prove it!"

He does eventually jump, and it's the beginning of the greatest adventure he'll ever know — one he never would have found in any book.

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_vi. but we hope in a short time to see you again_

The sea wept for want of another child, and one warm evening, as her foamy tears gathered on a Belgian beach, a daughter was born.

Her father was the moonlight, and he adored her. _Stay,_ he begged, _stay and let me look upon your beauty forever._

_Go,_ her mother sang. _Go, for you shall always be a part of me._

And as she was her mother's daughter, she did not stay. She swam and swam, meeting all her brothers and sisters, and swam some more. One day, she came upon a little green island held afloat by white rock, the water there colder than she anticipated and dashing fretfully against the cliffs.

Her mother would have taken an innocent child that day but for the little mermaid's intervention. She drug the boy upon the beach, laid him out on the sand, and for the first time in her life, she cried. She cried and cried, for the thought of losing him was too much for her tender heart to bear.

_I have never asked you for anything,_ she prayed to her mother, _but please, let him live._

The boy spluttered and coughed.

She watched him closely after that, hiding under the dock he so often played on, and she knew she loved him because he was as fond of singing as her kind were. The merfolk, after all, love nothing so much as they love a song.

_Heart of oak are our ships,_ the little boy sings, violently dashing two of his toy ships together, _jolly tars are our men —_

For the first time, the little mermaid reveals herself to him, saying: _I'm sorry to interrupt — I don't mean to be rude. But what does jolly mean?_

The little boy isn't afraid of her. His Papa has told him stories of how the greatest sailors are those who can hear the songs of the sea, and the little mermaid's voice is like music to him.

_It means happy,_ he said, unable to look away from her eyes, as luminous as the inside of oyster shells. _It means to be merry._

_Oh, what a pretty word!_ the little mermaid exclaimed, happily clasping her hands together. _Jolly. Jol-ly. I must teach it to my brothers and sisters._

_Why?_ the little boy asked, for to him it was a word just like any other, and not a particularly magnificent one.

_Why, so that we may use it in song! Our kind love to sing. But why were you singing alone? The children of the sea never sing alone. Someone always joins in because one person singing alone is the saddest sound in the whole world, don't you think?_

As he himself was often alone, his father and his brothers so often out at sea, the little boy quite agreed.

_You will never sing alone again,_ the little mermaid promised him, _for I shall stay by your side and sing with you._

The two grew up together, and the mermaid — still young, though no longer a child — cherished nothing in the world so much as the little boy, now become a young man. He wears a fine blue frock coat like his father and his brothers before him, for he is a lieutenant aboard the _Agamemnon_ — a beautiful vessel, as intricately carved as the toy ships from his childhood, though perhaps it is only beautiful to the mermaid because of the precious cargo it carries.

She swims out to meet him one night, and finds the sailors celebrating, officers and crew alike. They all appear very jolly indeed. She watches, unnoticed, and takes great pleasure in their raucous singing and drinking.

Her young man appears to be enjoying himself, especially so when he takes the hand of a pretty girl who is the opposite of the mermaid in every way: Long dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin which glows like honey in the torchlight. They dance, and though the mermaid does not entirely understand this custom of theirs, she is pleased to see her young man appears to be very good at it.

But after that night, her young man no longer wishes to sing with her. He only wants to talk of dancing.

(Her mother loved a young man once — loved him so much she wrapped her arms around him and never let go, drawing him deeper and deeper into her heart, deeper and deeper into her love. In his watery grave, he stayed with her forever.)

(She is her mother's daughter.)

Her heart shatters at the thought of any harm coming him, but it also shatters at the thought of being parted from him. Confused and hurt, she does not know what to do, and pulls at her hair in her grief. Eventually, she decides to swim far away from the cold island waters she has made her home for the past fifteen years.

Her young man misses her. He goes out to the dock every day and calls for her.

_Arthur, Arthur!_ she answers the day she returns to him, _I've been to see the sea witch, and she says she can give me legs. You'll dance with me once I have legs, won't you?_

But the dark-haired girl is also calling out to him. She waves to him, dancing up the _Agamemnon's_ gangway, the ring on her hand glinting in the sunlight. _Arthur, Arthur! Hurry or we'll be late!_

He hesitates, still searching for the mermaid, but she is already swimming back to the warm waters off the coast of Belgium.

Her adoring father caresses her face when she arrives, wipes every tear from her eye.

_Stay,_ he begs, _stay and let me look upon your beauty forever._

_Go,_ she sings out to her young man, wherever he may be, wherever her mother may take him. _Go, for you shall always be a part of me._

_._

_._

_vii. poison_

The new Queen — her stepmother — had never been popular with the people. By nature she was a cold, flinty woman, and after the King's sudden passing, she became reclusive and paranoid.

Still, the Princess Royal would never call her stepmother cruel or heartless. After all, it was her stepmother who assigned the oldest and best of all the royal knights to be her personal bodyguard. No one so cruel, so heartless, would go to such lengths to ensure her safety.

_He loves me,_ the princess thinks to herself as she plucks daisy petals from their stems, _he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not._

_He loves me not_ for each time he was unmoved by and unimpressed with her jokes — though, to be completely fair, they were usually made at his expense.

_He loves me not_ for all the times he so stubbornly adhered to his mission to protect her _(being professional,_ he called it), ignoring every playful and innocent advance she made.

_He loves me not_ for the day she slipped her hand in his and he jerked away, as though disgusted by her touch.

But then, finally and gloriously, the day he drew her close to him and kissed her — _he loves me, he loves me, he loves me._ He gently took her face in his calloused hands and told her he couldn't live without her, told her she meant the absolute world to him. Insisted that no matter what happened, she should always, _always_ believe that. _No matter what._

_He loves me,_ she thinks as she plucks the final petal from the daisy, but when she turns to look at her knight, he has his sword drawn.

They are alone in the forest. He takes one step toward her, then another —

"I can't do it," he cries, letting his sword slip from his fingers. "I can't. I _won't._ Please forgive me — _please."_

She breathes his name, a ghostly mockery of the endearments she whispered into his ear the day he kissed her. Shaking, too terrified to even reach out for him: "What — what — ?"

He falls to his knees before her, the dewy grass caught between his fingers. "She told me she would murder my family if I didn't kill you. But — I can't — she's mad with jealousy. She won't stop — she'll send someone else. I shall kill a deer and take the heart back to her as proof, but — go. _Run._ Run and don't look back."

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks, crushing the last daisy petal in her hand.

"That doesn't matter now. _Run."_

_._

_._

_viii. the english lord has his day_

How anyone could _ever_ take him seriously whilst he was wearing that ridiculous neck ruff, she'd never know. He had to turn sideways just to fit through the front door of her clothing shop, and as the door fell shut behind him, the long feather of his plumed cap got caught between the door and the frame.

When he starts making a scene, thrashing about like a cat, she walks out from behind her counter to help him. All it takes to free him is her opening the door.

"I was in no need of any assistance from the likes of _you,"_ he snaps, unable to meet her eyes, his face scarlet. "I was handling it fine on my own."

"Why didn't you step out from under your hat?" she asks, genuinely curious. "Just let it dangle by its feather for a bit, and then open the door to release it?"

The man stares at her, aghast. "Why — but that's absurd. _Go bareheaded?_ When my hat is such an integral part of my outfit?"

"I wouldn't have told anyone," she loudly whispers, a playful smile on her lips.

"Puh." Looking scandalized, he readjusts his collar. "It's simply isn't _done."_

They both roll their eyes at one other.

"I'm sorry, sir," she eventually says, walking back behind her counter, "but you'll have to come back tomorrow. I'll be closing my shop in ten minutes, so — "

He peruses the doublets on display in the window. "No, that shan't do. You shall remain open."

"I'm sorry?"

"You'll close up shop for the day as soon as I've finished here, and not a moment sooner."

"_No,_ actually," she says after a moment, her tone even. _"I_ decide when my shop closes, and — "

"Tut," he chirps, throwing up a hand to silence her.

She blinks and then narrows her eyes in disbelief. "Did you just _tut_ me?"

"You are obviously aware of what the expression means. If you insist on continuing making unnecessary vocalizations, it shall displease me."

She rests her hands upon her hips. "I don't know _who you think you are, _but I _won't_ be treated this way! I respectfully ask that you leave my shop immediately."

"Do calm down."

"_Calm down?"_ she shrieks. "Where on _earth_ do you get the _audacity_ to — "

"I have scoured this entire God-forsaken town all damn day," he sighs, indolently batting at reams of fabric with his cane, "in the hopes of finding a suitable outfit for a dinner party I am scheduled to attend tonight. I've come to the conclusion that your clothing shop seems to carry the least poor quality of clothes."

"You are _far too kind,"_ she says, scrunching up her mouth in displeasure.

"Yes, as I am well aware. Now, then — what I desire is something French, only…less so."

"What's wrong with the French style? It's very popular, and with good reason."

He snorts inelegantly. "The French try too hard, and their influence corrupts everything it touches."

The girl — half French herself — bristles at that.

"Well?" he demands, tapping his gloved fingers against her counter, inspecting them for dust. As her regular dusting day isn't until tomorrow, he turns up his nose at his findings. "Might you be able to assist me, or shall I take my money elsewhere?"

Had she not met him for herself, she never would have believed someone could not only be so disagreeable, but also be so wholly unaware of it.

Perhaps it's high time he _was_ made aware of it.

"Wait there just a moment," she eventually says. "I think I may have just the thing for you."

She disappears behind a curtain, into her workroom. When she returns, she's holding her arms out before her, her fingers curled as though she were carrying a sack of air.

"Here you are!" she cheerfully exclaims, setting the invisible bundle down on a chair. "The finest French-but-not-_too_-French clothing available."

"Erm — " He glances around the room. "Where?"

"Here," she answers, pointing to the chair.

"That's preposterous!" he cries, banging his cane against the floor. "What sort of fool do you take me for?"

She bites her tongue at that. _Hard._

"If you are not going to take my request seriously — "

"Oh! But you can't mean…is it possible, sir, that you cannot see the clothes?"

"_No," _he grits out, "I _cannot."_

She brings a hand to her cheek, her eyes wide. "But — dear me, that just doesn't make any sense! Only the most intelligent of people can see them, and, as anyone can see, you are obviously a man of wealth and taste, so it would follow you'd have a keen intellect as well. Can't have one without the others, now, can you? Or — well, perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps I was too hasty in my judgment, but that is _very definitely_ the impression I got from you."

"It — it is?" he hesitantly asks, glancing at the French-but-not-_too_-French clothes.

"Of course! I knew you were _one of a kind_ from the moment you deigned to lower yourself and grace my humble shop with your presence."

The man bites his lip.

"Can't you see the purple trim here?" she encourages him. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Oh — oh, yes." He clears his throat. "I see it now. Yes. And — is that gold embroidery on the pocket?"

"It _is!_ See? I _knew_ these would be perfect for you. They've been sitting in my back room for _ages_ because I haven't found anyone who was worthy of wearing them yet."

She leads him into her changing room and draws the curtain, letting him change into the clothes. He eventually emerges as naked as the day he was born, and she leads him to stand before a full-length mirror.

"I suppose you Belgians know more about fine clothes than anyone," he allows, turning this way and that, inspecting his reflection.

"Oh, _yes,"_ the girl agrees, her eyes bright. "It's what we're famous for."

"The fit is good, you think?"

"Hmm, let me see..."

She removes the measuring tape from around her neck, begins checking the length of his arm, the width of his shoulders. She loops it around his middle, lightly tickling his stomach with her fingers.

"Is everything alright?" she asks when he clenches his abdomen.

He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead of him. "Of course."

"I think the trousers could come in a little at the waist."

"Yes, I thought as much."

"And how are the pockets in the back?" she inquires, gently cupping his backside with the palm of her hand. He jerks, and she can feel the gooseflesh prickling on his skin. "Do they sit too low? Too high?"

"I — _ah_ — ah, yes, they're — they shall do."

She chuckles to herself and removes her hand.

He clears his throat and stares down at his toes, wiggling them inside his invisible shoes. "And — it's not too French?"

"Not too French at all."

"You would — you would tell me if it were, wouldn't you? You _are_ the expert, after all. You would know best."

How childlike he looks, she suddenly realizes, and with no little surprise. Physically, he is slimmer than what his original outlandish clothing would suggest, but also — perhaps he is so very proud and vain because he has no confidence in himself. It would not be the first time she's seen someone rely on their outer appearance to make up for some sort of perceived ugliness within.

_Still._ He needs to be taught a lesson, but as she is not completely heartless, she decides she won't charge him for her services today.

The next morning:

"_You!"_ he screeches, furiously striding up to the shopkeeper as she sweeps her front porch. "You tricked me! I have been made a laughingstock thanks to you! You made me make a fool of myself!"

She throws her head back and laughs. "I did nothing of the sort, you ridiculous ass! You've no one to blame for making a fool of yourself except — well, yourself."

"I won't let you get away with this! And — _stop laughing,_ for Heaven's sake! Have you any idea who I _am,_ girl? I — "

"Tut," she chirps, holding up her hand to silence him. She turns and walks into her shop, slamming the door in his face.

.

.

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In order, the fairy tales are: Peter Pan, Swan Lake/The Swan Princess, The Six Swans, Rumpelstiltskin, Rapunzel, The Little Mermaid, Snow White, and The Emperor's New Clothes.

"Tirra lirra" is a nonsense rhyme Sir Lancelot sings in Tennyson's poem "The Lady of Shalott." It's generally thought to be a reference to a scene in Shakespeare's _The Winter's Tale. _"I am half-sick of shadows" is also from "The Lady of Shalott." The Hunchback of Notre Dame named the biggest bell (his favorite one) Marie. Grendel, Rupert of Hentzau, and Iago are all famous villains; Dorothea Brooke, Anne Elliot, and Sydney Carton are all famous for their goodness and selflessness.

"But we hope in a short time to see you again" from "Spanish Ladies." "Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men" from "Heart of Oak."

I hope you enjoyed, please take care and thank you for reading! : )


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